


Impermanence

by Todesengel



Series: Mag7 Bingo [15]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps the town isn't the only thing that's changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impermanence

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: tongue lashing

Vin hit the edge of town sooner than he expected. It wasn't much of an edge, just a shabby tent surrounded by a rickety fence, with a pile of wood behind it and a couple of scrawny chickens scratching hopelessly at the dirt, but it hadn't been there two months ago. The sight of it made a deep discomfort settle in his spine; it seemed like Four Corners was growing faster than Buck's ego sometimes, especially now that some idiot had found silver in the hills, and he wasn't at all sure the land could stand it. He wasn't sure he could stand it either, though not for the reasons he reckoned most folks thought. 

The changes wrought in his absence grew more pronounced the closer Vin got towards the center of town – a new blacksmith had set up shop out behind Watson's, and it looked like the dance hall had finally been finished. New alleyways too, and Vin caught the faint reek of a tannery on the wind. Well that, at least, he approved of. The holster for his mare's leg was beginning to get right shabby and he could do with a new one; maybe even a new set of saddlebags too. The last bounty had been right handsome, and he'd picked up some jewelry from the Apaches that he reckoned he could sell or barter for something decent – or maybe give to Ezra to sell for him, and that thought sent a small curl of warmth blooming in his chest. 

The first really unpleasant note of his homecoming came when he brought his horse into the livery and found his stall occupied by a big palomino with a mean eye and a silver mane. He eyed the horse, and for a minute he was strongly tempted to just toss the flashy beast out on its clearly pedigreed ass and put his geld into its proper place. But before he could do anything of that kind, Tiny was there, confusion writ large on his face, and a hoof pick still in one hand. 

"Tiny, why's my stall occupied?" Vin asked, too trail weary to be anything but calm. 

"Well, I wasn't sure you was gonna be back," Tiny said. "You ain't been heard from in a while, and what with all these new people..."

"But that's my stall, Tiny," Vin said. "It's always been my stall. You know that."

"I'm sorry, Vin, but John Lakey's paid up for a month and—"

"But it's my stall," Vin said again, and this time he let a little of the frustration that was growing in him show. "You ain't got no right to let out my stall."

"Well it ain't like you ever paid…" Tiny began, but stuttered into silence under the force of Vin's even stare. 

"I guess I could turn Lakey's horse out into the paddock for now," he muttered eventually, fiddling nervously with the pick he still held. "Marsh'll be gone tomorrow, and I can give Lakey his box, and it don't look like it'll rain anytime soon."

Vin said nothing in reply, but he didn't start to untack his horse until he'd seen Tiny lead the palomino out of his box and give shout for a stable boy to muck the stall out and lay in some new bedding – "and be right quick about it, too."

It took almost no time at all for Vin to untack his horse, though brushing out all the dust from its coat took much longer. He ran his hands down Peso's legs, picked clean each hoof, and made a mental note to go to the blacksmith tomorrow for a new set of shoes – the current ones were nearly gone, little more than a token sheen of metal. By the time he was done, his stall was ready and he led Peso in, nodding in approval to see that the water bucket was full of clean water and that there was grain as well as a goodly amount of hay. He tipped the boy a penny and smiled a little at the gap-toothed grin his small act of generosity got him.

Sorting out the tack took a good deal longer than sorting out his horse, for there'd been rain on the trail, and damp too. Mold had set into the leather covering the horn, and mud coated the cinch straps, and his horse blanket was so full of dirt that when he gave it a shake it sent up such a cloud of dust that he started coughing like he had the consumption. Everything could use a good scrubbing, and oiling, and he'd probably need to get the seat re-covered – though he'd hate having to do so, for this one fit him just right, all worn in like a good pair of boots. It'd be a task of hours, making everything just right, making sure his gear was all properly stowed away. A task of hours, and Vin knew with a sudden clarity that it was a task he wasn't up to – not right now, anyway. It could wait, and if it couldn't then it'd damn well have to.

Vin shouldered his saddlebags and stepped out into the street, and paused, unsure of what he wanted to do next. On the one hand, he was desperately tired, for he'd ridden most of the night to get to town; and he was sore, too, not just from the ride but from sleeping on the rocky ground and longing for Ezra's downy bed – and more for Ezra himself, if it came to that; and he felt filthy, dirty in a way he hadn't before, dirty in a way that something more than a quick splash in the river could take care of. Bed or bath – both were just as appealing. He glanced at the sun, squinting in the morning glare. Just past nine, he reckoned, and Ezra would still be in bed, most likely dead asleep – though perhaps not quite so dead asleep that he wouldn't mind a bit of company, and Vin's aching bones did so miss the yielding comfort of that fine, fancy mattress. Of course, he reckoned Ezra'd kick up a fuss so loud as to be guaranteed to bring the rest of the guys running, if he slid into Ezra's bed looking and smelling like he did, with two months of trail dust caked into every last inch of his skin. Besides, just the thought of wearing these clothes a minute longer – heck, of wearing any of the clothes that lay rumpled and stained in his saddlebags – damn near made him shudder. And just gone nine on a Tuesday morning would probably mean the bathhouse would be empty, a fact that suited Vin just fine.

 _And_ , he thought to himself, giving voice at last to the dread that had settled in him at the first sight of the town, _maybe it ain't just the buildings that've changed._

His wagon, at least, hadn't changed in the time he'd been gone, and Vin was glad he'd resisted the urge to take a room at the boarding house like the other guys. So much easier to just drop his things there and pick up clean clothes – oh so gloriously clean, and that more than made up for the fact that the shirt was missing three buttons and the pants were worn nearly sheer in the rear – and some soap and head to Johnson's bathhouse. 

It took three tubs before the water ran clear, and Vin made them fill up a fourth before he let himself sink down into the warm water and soak away the aches of his journey. It was almost as good as soaking in a hot spring – maybe even better, what with the lack of the sulfur in the air. But then again, maybe a bit of sulfur was an acceptable trade-off for being able to stretch out fully into the warmth. Vin knew he wasn't an especially tall man – not tall like Buck or Nathan, at any rate – but he could barely get more than half his chest submerged before his knees broke the surface. 

Still, it was comfortable, and the tin sides of the tub were starting to warm up from the heat of the water, creating a pleasant – if different – heat along his back and neck. Comfortable, and not just physically so. In the quiet of the bathhouse – empty, as he'd reckoned it'd be – Vin felt his entire being start to unwind, as though all the tension he'd been carrying was leeching away into the metal against his skin, leaving nothing but an empty peace behind.

He was just in danger of drifting off to sleep, lulled by the warmth and the muted hum of the town in the midst of its morning workings, when he heard Ezra drawl out, "Well, I'm not sure if I should celebrate the fact that something of my civilizing nature has begun to rub off on you, or to be annoyed that you chose to come here first." 

Vin cracked an eye and gave Ezra a lazy smile, as a warmth of an entirely different sort seeped into his tired frame. "Thought I oughta clean myself up 'fore I came calling," he said, and his smile widened at Ezra's small _hrmph_. 

"Celebration it is, then," Ezra replied. 

Vin closed his eye and let his body relax even further into the tub, tracking Ezra's movements by sound alone: A double thud as Ezra took off his boots; the soft rustle of clothing being careful removed; a gentle sloshing noise of water filling a pail.

Vin let his mind drift further away. He wondered if it'd be possible to fuck in these tubs. Surely with a bit of careful balancing it'd be easy enough. They'd have to be quiet, of course, and even with the unusual hour there was always the chance that someone would take it in their head to have a bath, or that one of the attendants might come in to see if the water needed some heating up, or, hell, they might just knock over the tub trying to get into position, and that'd get folks running in real fast. Of course, maybe that'd make things even better – the hint of danger at discovery, the thrill of getting away with something right under the nose of Howard Johnson, who was probably the most prying gossip in town. Vin didn't reckon himself on being a particularly public kind of a person – ain't nobody's business where or when or with who he spent his private time – but that didn't mean he was ashamed of what he and Ezra did, and – 

" _Fuck_!" he shouted, as a pail of water – cold in comparison to the warmth of his body, but probably not quite so full of ice as he imagined it to be – was poured over his head. He sat up, spluttering and annoyed, and glared at Ezra, who wasn't undressed at all, merely unjacketed, and whose gaze was at least as cold as the water had been. 

"Dear, dear. I appear to have mixed up the hot and cold pails. I'm so dreadfully sorry," Ezra said, giving Vin that not-smile of his that meant he was well and truly mad.

"Ezra," Vin said, confused and starting to feel a little angry himself. "What'd you go and do that for?"

"Why I thought perhaps your water had grown cold and needed some refreshing," Ezra said, undoing his cuffs as he spoke, his voice eerily calm and even. He rolled up his sleeves and gestured imperially at Vin. "Sit back. Your hair needs washing."

"I just washed it," Vin muttered, but did as he was ordered. His easy peace was gone, and the fear of change was back, bringing with it an echo of the wariness of the past two months. There was something dangerous going on here, he reckoned, and until he knew where he stood – whether the ground beneath him was solid or all sliding sand – he'd do what Ezra said. He watched Ezra, now, with hooded eyes; watched him bring over a small stool to sit on, and another pail of water, and he couldn't help the way the muscles in his shoulders tensed as he felt Ezra's fingers slide into his hair. 

"Your hair," Ezra said, as he began to scrub Vin's scalp with a gentleness that did nothing to ease Vin's wariness at all, "would put a mountain man's to shame. I declare it's longer than some girls', and twice as troublesome. Why don't you cut it short?"

"Can't say I'm particularly fond of havin' a man with anythin' sharp anywhere near my throat," Vin said, and then made a small, involuntary noise of pleasure as Ezra's fingers gently massaged a spot that was, apparently, connected directly to his cock. 

"How do you know I'm not about to cut your throat?" Ezra asked, still in that same strange tone. 

"Too messy," Vin said, then frowned as Ezra's finger's stilled. "Ezra?"

"I ought to, you know," Ezra said, and now there was an edge of heat to his voice. "Even with the allowances for your barbarous upbringing, what you've done…"

"What'd I do?" Vin asked, confusion growing, and now a fear too. "I told you I was gonna be gone for a bit, that I'd got some business in Purgatorio to take care of. I even sent you a wire!"

"Ah yes," Ezra said, and his fingers began to move again, pulling and tugging through Vin's hair with enough force to cause tears to well up, unbidden, in the corners of Vin's eyes. "Your wire. 'Delayed'. A succinct missive indeed. And yet, Mister Tanner, I suspect even you know the meaning of the word 'delay'. 'Delayed' implies a few days, perhaps a week at most. Not two months. Especially," and here Ezra's grip tightened, until Vin almost whimpered with the pain, "two months without a single word from you to tell me that you're still alive!"

Ezra let go of Vin's head and Vin tilted his head back until he could look Ezra in the eyes, a thousand excuses – a thousand truths – all on the tip of his tongue. He could have explained how the man he'd gone to hunt down in Purgatory had proved to be more than just a simple bounty; how he'd learned of an Apache raiding party heading for the town; how he'd spent weeks among the tribes, negotiating, trading, fighting, begging them to turn their eyes elsewhere – to Arizona or Texas or further south; that as soon as he'd convinced one tribe, another would turn up and he'd have to move, have to prove himself as one of The People again and again, in a language as foreign to him as the one Ezra sometimes spoke; that, in the end, it had been useless and perhaps less than useless, for no tribe had planned a raid upon his home, and while no tribe now would attack the town, he knew the peace he'd brokered was fleeting at best, valid for only as long as any war chief lived. 

He could have said all of that, and more, too; given a variant on the speech he'd once given Charlotte long ago, of his wild and wooly nature, of his need to run, of his urge not to be free (for he'd long since determined that freedom was a tricky thing) but to have the space of freedom before him. 

But he'd had enough of space lately. Enough of wild and wooly, of hard ground and hard times and hard days in the saddle. And besides, he'd learned long ago to never engage in a battle of words with Ezra. 

"I'm sorry," he said, for it was really the only words he could say, the only words that mattered. "You know I ain't…" and he trailed off, hoping that Ezra would understand what he couldn't say.

Ezra sighed and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Vin's. "I know," he said, then backed away, rolling down his sleeves and button up his cuffs. 

"Ezra?"

"Try to be quiet when you come in." Ezra glanced at the curtained window on the far wall of the bathhouse and wrinkled his nose. "How all those people can be so _active_ at this ungodly hour is beyond me."

Vin watched Ezra leave, a smile on his face. 

Well, perhaps things hadn't changed as much as he had feared.


End file.
